


Finding Providence

by PlacesBetween



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s01e18 Providence, M/M, and May is a protective badass, clint has a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlacesBetween/pseuds/PlacesBetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint Barton received coordinates on his badge, the last thing he expected to find was his long dead S.O. </p><p>Started as an episode tag to Providence. Now stretching into 1x19 The Only Light in The Darkness and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint is ten days into what is turning out to be one of his least favorite cross country jaunts (and that includes the horror that was getting stuck in the Australian outback) when he finally reaches his destination. He doesn't know what he's walking toward; if this will be a trap or his saving grace. All he knows is the little he has been able to glean from televisions in small towns where he stopped long enough to grab a coffee and a bite to eat before continuing onward. Helicarriers crashing into the Potomac. Captain America saving the day once again, apparently with Clint's very own best friend by his side. 

Clint has a makeshift bandage across his thigh where he was shot, and each step forward reminds him of how badly he's messed up his ribs. That doesn't stop him from being cautious though. He takes the long way around, up through a hilly pass that has good cover and gives him the lay of the land. Below he can see the remains of footsteps, six pairs of them, weaving unsteadily toward his goal. Somebody else is here, wherever here is.

Another hour passes before Clint makes his way down, his belly full with his last energy bar and his gun held steady in his hand. For a moment he thinks wistfully about his bow, left behind in the wreckage of the safe house, nearly bent in two.

Clint walks into the clearing and with a deep breath announces himself. Relief courses through his veins when an entry way opens up, but he doesn't let his guard down. He's seen enough, experienced enough to know that even the safest places hold danger for a guy like him.

The man who comes forward is painfully S.H.I.E.L.D. The kind of guy Clint used to roll his eyes at before he realized that there are soldiers beneath the pressed suits and feigned naivety. 

“Mr. Barton; we're glad to see you're safe! If you'll just follow me through here.”

“Where exactly is here?” Clint asks, reveling in the warmth that surrounds him as the door closes. He squints up at the artificial light, taking in every detail. This isn't a safe house, that much he knows. But it isn't much more than that either.

The guy who introduced himself as Agent Koenig: level six, walks in front of Clint, looking back each time he speaks. The kind of comfort that takes for an agent, to know there is nothing to keep a watch ahead for is rare and strange to see. 

“I call it Providence. It's a S.H.I.E.L.D. secret base. Highly secret; and we plan to keep it that way.”

The small upturn of Clint's lips disappears completely, Koenig's words remind him just how long it's been since he was considered a trusted member of the organization he calls home. “Right. I'll try not to tell any alien Gods about your little hidey hole then.”

“Perfect!” Koenig answers in a jovial tone. Clint kind of wants to punch him.

Koenig leads him into a mess hall of sorts, made to fit no more than fifteen people. As his eyes cover every inch of the room, he sees that they aren't alone. The four people who are crouched together, deep in conversation pull apart and turn toward him. It takes him only a second to realize that one of those people is his old handler, supposedly dead for two years and counting. 

All of the feelings he had kept buried since the day Natasha sat him down and explained to him that Coulson was gone come rushing back. He can barely breathe beneath the force of it. 

“What the fuck.” He tears his gaze away from Coulson, looks from person to person hoping for some sign that this isn't the result of his concussion or his body finally giving into exhaustion. His eyes, always his most trusted companion seem to be betraying him, because what he sees doesn't add up with the screaming voice in his head insisting that Phil Coulson is long gone.

“Clint,” Coulson says, sounding unsteady and unsure. Clint reaches for his gun, secure in the fact that Coulson's voice never wavers. Even when he was facing the worst odds, his voice was always strong and there for Clint to lean on.

“You're dead. I saw your body.” 

“Don't even think about it Barton.” Melinda May cocks back the trigger on her gun, stepping in front of Coulson. 

Clint hasn't seen May in a long time, but he knows her; has known her for almost as long as Coulson. He remembers how hard it had been to earn a kind word from her back when he was still on the shit list of almost everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D., and how easily that turned around once she knew that Coulson trusted him. 

“I want an explanation and I want it now.” 

“It's not a trick. The man in front of you is Phillip Coulson. I can show you the paperwork from Fury if you'd like.” Koenig says this with ease, as if they're talking about the weather instead of pointing guns at one another.

But Clint doesn't need papers or promises from some man he never met. Melinda May, standing as first line of defense is enough to convince him. The sweat on his skin goes clammy as he swallows the truth. Coulson is alive and nobody bothered to tell Clint.

“Everybody out.” Coulson's eyes haven't left his since he walked through the door. It reminds him so much of before. How there could be an entire room full of people and still Coulson would make him feel like the only one in the room. As if Clint was something special.

Clint just barely registers Coulson and Koenig arguing back and forth about debriefing Clint, and May insisting that Clint can't be trusted _yet_. He doesn't speak because there are no words for what he's feeling. He should be happy; he knows he should. Coulson is alive and apparently well. He's dreamed of this a thousand times. But it never ended this way; with anger crowding his thoughts until all that is left is an urge to hit and punch and run away.

May agrees to leave with the promise of a lowered gun from Clint. She ushers out the two kids (because that's what they are; painfully young and so clearly not field agents) who had watched with wide eyes while the adults argued. Koenig follows behind, with the wry comment that he'll be watching, pointing to the security cameras. 

Clint waits until the sound of the door closing fades into nothingness before he attempts to translate what's going on in his head. “How?”

Coulson moves to the fridge and pours himself and Clint a glass of water, leaving the drink on the counter for Clint if he wants to take it. Clint keeps his distance. 

“It's a long story.” 

He laughs bitterly, feeling the sting of tears that he refuses to let fall in the corners of his eyes. “A long story; right.” He crouches down, rubbing his hands over his face. “Where's Fury?”

“Dead,” Phil responds, his voice raspy and pained. Clint doesn't miss the hesitation before the answer; files it away as something to come back to later. He doesn't have time for that right now. “Do you know what's been happening Clint? With S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

Clint stands up straight, moving as far away from Coulson as he can in the small confines of the room as he speaks.

“All I know is, I was in the safe house Fury stowed me away in a month back, waiting for my next orders when suddenly I was being shot at by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.” Clint turns around, making eye contact with Coulson, edging closer as he speaks. “I took three of them down before one shot me in the thigh. And do you know what he said to me, when I had him in a choke hold, ready to end him?”

“Hail Hydra,” Phil answers for him, his voice cold and serious, his hands braced against the counter, and _that_ is the Coulson he remembers. 

“Hail Hydra,” Clint repeats with a nod. “Sir, what the fuck is going on?”

Clint listens as Coulson goes over all of the facts he has at his disposal one by one. Much of it centered on lies and deceit and things Clint never imagined coming true, even in his worst nightmares. 

He feels the past decade of his life slipping away from him; wondering where, if anywhere, he can find truth in this mess that now seems to be their reality. He thought he'd moved on from questionable allegiances and bad decisions. He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, fighting for the good guys and he had the badge to prove it. Except now, the badge meant nothing.

Coulson lets the quiet linger when he finishes. It's not for lack of what to say, Clint knows that much. He's allowing Clint room to collect his thoughts and figure out how to say what he wants to say, just like he's always done. It's the same patience that helped Clint go from unmanageable field agent to what he is today. The truth of how much he's missed this, has missed Coulson, burns in his throat. 

When Clint finally asks his next question, it's more of a statement, because he can't bear it going any other way. “But you're not Hydra.”

“No, I'm not.” Phil's eyes crinkle in the corners, the product of a grimace that speaks of pain. The kind that mars you and never seems to end. Clint can only guess what Coulson has been up to since they last saw each other, but whatever it is, it isn't pretty. 

“You're just...” Clint waves his hand, trying to find the words. “Magically fucking alive when the last I saw you were,” Clint swallows, unable to continue, the memory strong and unyielding. Coulson's body, still beneath a white sheet; put there because Clint was weak and Loki was strong.

“Like I said, it's a long story. I'm sorry I never told you. I should have told you.”

Clint's body flushes in anger, his painful injuries momentarily forgotten as he slams his hands against the counter. “You're damn right you should have told me! Jesus Christ, Phil. Two years. I thought you were dead for _two years_. Do you know what that did to me?”

Coulson shakes his head, his mouth a thin line. “I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone.”

Clint stops short at that. “But you could tell Melinda.”

Coulson nods. “But I could tell her.”

“Right,” Clint sighs, all of the fight draining out of him. “I'm gonna go handle this shit with Koenig. And after that...”

“After that?” 

For a second, Coulson looks hopeful. Like maybe Clint will give him a pass for hiding the truth from him for so fucking long and just accept that this is the way it is. A big part of Clint wants to do just that. To see Coulson smile again and feel his hand on his shoulder. He'd even take back the longing that often came with having Coulson in his life; knowing he could never have more than what was in front of him. But he's still so angry and confused and he knows they would both be hurt in the end if he gave in to the easy answer. 

“I don't know. I don't think I know much of anything anymore.”

Clint has slammed a lot of doors in his life, but none have ever felt so satisfying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided not to go AU after this week's episode and to instead, work it into my narrative. Coulson dealing with a past love with Clint by his side was just too hard to resist.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! More to come soon~
> 
> Thanks to Ashley for being my cheerleader and helping hand through this story so far.

When there's a knock at the door of the room Koenig gave Clint to clean up in, he expects it to be Coulson. All the same, he's not surprised when he opens the door and sees May instead.

“So, you're alive,” she says wryly. She doesn't come in, instead choosing to lean against the door jamb.

“You think a bunch of Hydra assholes can take me down? That hurts, May.” He walks back to the bed, to where he was attempting to patch up his favorite jacket. The left sleeve was horribly ripped when he jumped from a moving train; his only viable means of getting to the coordinates. 

“We've lost a lot of good people to them.”

Clint looks up at that, giving a short nod in agreement. He doesn't know how many are gone. Only that the numbers are big and Natasha is safe. 

May must see something in that nod, because she steps in then, sitting beside him on the bed. He lets her take the ruined jacket from him, attacking the rips with needle and thread. She doesn't question why he is sewing a tattered jacket while simultaneously bleeding all over his pants or why he isn't resting in his spare few moments before Koenig decides to help himself to everything in Clint's head. May's always been good like that.

“I hear you and Coulson have been flying around the world. Saving the day; fighting the good fight.”

He doesn't have it in him to look up and see the expression on May's face, even if that makes him a coward. May has always been a force in Coulson's life, the same way Natasha is in his. It's nothing he can or wants to change. But right now he feels raw and alone; left in the dark by the two people he cares about most in his life. 

“And what have you been doing, Clint?”

“What? Like you don't know?” he says, rolling his eyes. If there is one thing about May, besides being one of the best fighters they have, it's that she always knows everything. 

“Three months of intensive therapy and scientific study to make sure your head was still in the game. Another three months of what was supposed to be a sabbatical which you instead spent in an apartment outside of Chicago, targeting petty criminals. Six months in South America, acting as protection for a low level research team. After that, I lost track.”

Clint snorts at that. “You mean you had better things to do than keep an eye on a washed up assassin.” 

“Fury needed to make sure. You know that. He'd do the same for anyone else.”

Clint sits down beside her, thinking over what to say next. He feels flayed open, exposed to too much emotion after so much time holding back. 

“He lied to me, May.” Clint doesn't have to say who, the scene they caused earlier and the long history between the two of them being more than enough for someone like May to go off of. Clint's always liked how little he needed to say with May.

“Yeah, there's a lot of that going around. For what it's worth, he never stopped caring.” Her answer is devoid of emotion, but Clint sees beneath it. 

May is hurting just as much as he and Coulson are. It would be easy to point to SHIELD and Fury and all of the mayhem around them as an answer to the pain, but Clint's been in the business long enough to know that it isn't the big things that stress people like them.

Koenig's voice comes over the intercom system, asking for his presence. Clint stands while May patiently finishes the last few stitches. 

“Koenig wants to debrief me. Find out if I'm Hydra.” Clint laughs, conscious of the cut on his lip splitting open in that way that feels somewhere between pleasure and pain. 

“Good,” May nods. “We can't trust anybody anymore. You understand that, Clint.”

Clint bites down, tasting blood. “I'm starting to get that, yeah. Let's get this shit show on the road.”

–---

He passes the lie detector test. Answers everything truthfully. It's only after Koenig is satisfied, that he's pushed toward medical where the young girl who had been talking to Coulson and May when he arrived is waiting, tutting at his make shift job on his thigh. 

“You should have told me about this right away, Agent Barton.”

“It's not so bad,” Clint shrugs. He feels restless, swinging the one leg he can move back and forth while Jemma Simmons painstakingly examines his injuries. 

Coulson is nowhere to be seen. Apparently another member of their team had shown up while Clint was being run through the S.H.I.E.L.D. issue meat grinder, warranting his attention.

“You're kinda young aren't you?” 

“That depends what we're talking about, sir.” Her voice is pure professional, but her tone drips with annoyance. Clint smiles a little at that. It's not about her, really. He's just always enjoyed prodding at the people who stick him with needles and treat him like a thing to be cured. 

“Chief medical on Casa De Coulson. Can't ask for a much better job than that for a desk jockey.”

“Your Spanish is atrocious, and I am not a desk jockey. Now take off your pants.”

Of course that is the exact moment Coulson walks in. He looks tired; no, exhausted. The cut on his forehead is irritated, like he's been picking at it, and the circles under his eyes stand out in the harsh lighting of medical. If this were a few years back, Clint would joke with him about his sallow appearance before carting him to bed and threatening to hold him down until he goes to sleep. But this isn't then, and now, Clint can only paste a fake smile on his face and ignore the worry settling beneath his skin. 

“Mighty forward doctor you have here, Coulson.”

“How are we doing?” The question isn't directed at Clint, but at Simmons. She goes over his litany of injuries; the stitches he'll need and pain meds and antibiotics to be administered.

“Good, not too bad then. Go see if Ward needs you. He's looking pretty beat up and I need to talk to Clint before you give him anything.”

“But sir!” Simmons protests, looking scandalized. “He pulled the bullet out of his leg himself. I really think-”

“It's fine, doc,” Clint interrupts. “A few more minutes isn't going to kill me. Go check on your teammate.”

“I'll be right behind you,” Coulson says before turning his attention to Clint. “Hi.”

It's a simple word, but the meaning behind it fills Clint completely. Just a touch of affection, and a larger dose of serious consideration and worry. 

“Hi?” Clint replies, furrowing his brow. 

He feels small suddenly, with Coulson's laser like focus on him. He's all too aware of how their last conversation ended and that right now, with Clint just on the edge of too much pain and exhaustion, Coulson has the upper hand. It's the kind of thing he has trusted Coulson with for years now, but their time apart sits like a heavy weight between them, dividing what was from what is. 

“Natasha's okay.”

Clint blinks at that. It's the last place he expected Coulson to take the conversation. “I know. It's the first thing I checked.”

Coulson leans against the table behind him, arms crossed. Standing like that, he has to look up at Clint who is still perched on the examination table, but it does nothing to ease Clint even though he knows it's meant to. 

“She's been on the news. I half expected to see you trailing behind her, after they got wind of her hand in things.” 

“I was on my way to DC when I got these coordinates. I kind of figured they were from her, actually.” Clint rubs his hand across his badge, feels where the now invisible numbers had shined like a beacon. 

“She helped Captain America save the day,” Coulson states quietly, almost wistfully. 

“For them maybe,” Clint shrugs. He leaves the 'what about us?' unspoken. 

Coulson doesn't comment, his face scrunched up in pain. Clint momentarily feels bad before it passes, coated over with anger and sadness and the feeling that he will never regain balance again.

“One of my guys just came in from The Fridge. It's fallen to Hydra.”

Clint curses under his breath, and for the first time since this all happened, he feels like he understands just how big this whole Hydra business is.

“How many did they get?”

“We don't know for sure, but it looks like all of them.”

Clint nods. “And I take it you're headed out there now to try and track them down?”

“I am.” Coulson reaches out, his hand coming so close to touching Clint before he pulls back, as if thinking better of it. Clint is _not_ disappointed. He isn't. “This isn't your fight if you don't want it to be, Clint. What S.H.I.E.L.D. has done with you these past few years...I would understand if you decided to go.”

“With all due respect sir, where do you think I'm going to go?” Clint replies bluntly.

Coulson smiles. “Natasha's out there, somewhere.”

“And when she wants to be found, she'll come to me. Until then...” Clint shrugs, looking away. 

“You should hate me.”

“Who says I don't, sir?” Clint smiles, pleased when Coulson laughs, taking the words for how they were meant. Maybe what they had isn't completely lost, then.

“I realize we have a lot to talk about. And I hope when this is all over, you'll give me the chance to explain.” Coulson says carefully. “But right now, I need you.”

Clint feels almost dizzy with the effort of holding back the thrill that goes up his spine with those words. Coulson's right; they don't have time right now to talk about Clint's anger and his messed up feelings for Coulson that never seem to go away, no matter what he does. Feelings that have sat in his chest since the very first time Coulson's voice came over the radio with a witty reply instead of an admonishment for Clint's particular way with words. At least now he knows the feelings will never go away. If they can't be killed by this, Clint thinks, then they can't be killed by anything.

“What's the plan then?” 

–---

The plan it seems, doesn't include Ward or May. Clint follows a fast moving Coulson down the hallway, damning his leg for slowing him down. He has no trouble at all with the loud volume needed to convey his points.

“This is complete bullshit, sir, and you know it.”

“I don't need you to tell me how to handle my team, Clint.” 

“You'd never head into battle leaving back able bodied agents who are at your disposal unless there was a damn good reason. That isn't the Coulson I know.”

Coulson turns around, glaring daggers at Clint. “Well, maybe I'm _not_ the Coulson you knew. This is my mission and my decision. If you don't like it, then stay here.”

Clint doesn't bother following Coulson into the room where his team are waiting. Instead, he punches the wall, because that always solves everything and storms back to medical to wait for Simmons. He'll be damned if he Coulson is going out there alone, and if that mean willfully letting a stranger manipulate his body into working order, then so be it. 

–---

The minute Simmons lets him go, Clint barrels through the compound in search of May. She isn't in her room, nor in the command center with Koenig. Finally, he finds her sitting alone in the kitchen, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. 

He sits down across from her, pulling an extra chair over to rest his leg on and waits. 

“If you're here looking to pry into what's going on with Coulson and I, save it.”

Clint holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, if you're fine sending those adorable science nerds out there without back up, then that's your business.”  
“You know I'm not. You'll be there, and Agent Triplett.” May takes a breath before continuing. “Coulson won't have me.”

“And you're just accepting that?” Clint demands incredulously. 

“Coulson's plane. Coulson's team. Coulson's decision.”

Clint doesn't pry further, even though he is dying to know what happened that could throw May and Coulson off of their games so badly. He hadn't expected to march back from South America and have the darkness that had followed him since his mind went blank with the tap of Loki's scepter disappear. But he hadn't expected this either; feeling his way blindly, putting together information in bits and pieces with nobody to trust fully. 

“I'll need you to have his back. The mission isn't just anybody. It's Marcus Daniels.”

Clint's stomach drops. Marcus Daniels means Audrey. Suddenly it becomes a little clearer why Coulson has been so erratic since the news about The Fridge came in. 

“Does she know about Coulson?”

“She thinks he's dead. And if Coulson is still the person I think he is, he'll leave it that way.” 

Clint starts at the sound of May's chair scraping against the ground. She's gone before he can say another word. 

–---

Clint is strapped in beside the little guy (Fitz, Simmons had said before she disappeared to the front of the plane). Clint hadn't missed the look of longing on Fitz' face when he had watched Simmons retreating form and decided to stick by his side. Solidarity and all that. 

“Who are you then? Simmons says you're Hawkeye, but I don't believe her. You don't even have a bow.”

Clint grins at him, leering. “Okay, not Hawkeye. Who do you want me to be, then?” 

Clint laughs hard enough at the scandalized look and bright blush on Fitz' face to feel a pull in his stitches. He decides then and there that he really likes this guy. 

Fitz doesn't have a chance to answer, both of them distracted by Coulson boarding the plane. When he sees Clint, he pauses. 

“You're here.” Coulson clears his throat, having the decency to look at least a little ashamed at the surprise that had colored his voice.

“I am.” 

Coulson straps in across from them, his eyes just a little too wide and his expression making him look like a lost little kid. And fuck, Clint has really had enough of this. He unstraps, and takes a place next to Coulson where they can talk. Fitz is kind enough to pretend like he's immersed in his tablet and not in the conversation between his S.O. and the random guy who might or might not be the Amazing Hawkeye. 

“Sir, you need to get your head in the game and you need to do it now. This shit is personal for you, I get that. But we have no fire power and no back up and if you think I was going to let you walk into that-” Clint takes a couple of deep breaths before continuing. His hands are shaking a little and he has to push down the fear that they are walking into a death trap. “I've got your back, Coulson.”

“I know you do,” Coulson smiles then, his eyes crinkling in the corner and finally, he touches Clint. Just a hand on his arm, something so simple, but it's enough to make the shaking in his hands subside. “You don't have to worry, Clint. We're going to catch Daniels. This plan is going to work.”

Clint doesn't know why, but he believes him.


End file.
